Cry From The Grave (Chapter 34)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 34

     They arrived at their destination in Hazelwood an hour later. A Motorcycle had clipped a Ford F150 pickup truck on Interstate 70 westbound, and the resulting pileup forced a delay that held them up longer than Ballack wanted. Tori concluded a lengthy zigzag by waggling south through St. Ann before heading north on Lindbergh. Just before the intersection with 270, they eased into a neighborhood of modest single-family homes. Tori turned left off Utz Lane and headed down Blackberry Meadow Lane before pulling over so that Ballack's ramp could lower into the street side.

     "I sure hope this isn't a waste of time and energy," said Tori as she put the ramp back up and locked the Sprinter. "If they died seven years back, we might get a couple of residents who recall things vaguely. But you never know. This area doesn't strike me as a place where you put down deep roots."

     "What makes you say that, Tor?" Ballack asked as he scooted down the street toward the newest of the houses. "Close proximity to the traffic on 270?"

     "And not far enough away from the airport," Tori added, "so I'm sure the people here aren't too appreciative of the noise."
     Ballack stopped in front of the new house. Many on the block were about sixteen hundred square feet, but this one topped two thousand.
     "Forgot the ramp in case we're invited in?" he asked his partner.
     Tori shook her head. "Let's see if they come out."
     "Sympathy factor for the cripple," Ballack deadpanned. "Beautiful."
     Tori rang the bell twice before giving three sharp raps to the door. Ballack heard the yapping of a dog and then saw a Scottish terrier poke his nose through a set of faux wood blinds in the front window. The deadbolt clicked and a fresh-faced woman of shoulder-length red hair opened the inner door with only the storm glass between her and the outside. Her hair was wet as if she had just recently showered, and she wore a royal blue and white striped button-down shirt with faded jeans. Ballack caught the squeal of a child calling in the background. As the woman opened the door, Ballack noticed she had alternating blue and white polish on her toenails.
     "Can I help you?" Her voice was neither welcoming nor antagonistic. She intoned her question as if she was reading from a grocery list.
    Ballack had previously looked at the mailbox at the street and decided to gamble on the posted name as hers. "Mrs. Phillips?"
    A boy of about four waddled toward her and wrapped his arms around her thin legs from behind. She absorbed his tackle easily and brushed a cowlick of hair from her eyes. "I'm Shari Phillips. Why do you ask?"
     "Thank you, Shari. My name is Cameron Ballack. I'm a detective for the Special Investigative Division of Metro St. Louis, as is my partner Tori Vaughan. To be assured of our identity, here are our badges."
     Shari Phillips looked satisfied. Picking up the child, she stepped onto the front porch, looking at Ballack on the entry path. "Again, Detective Ballack, why do you ask me my name?"
     "Just a prelude to asking how long you've lived at this address," Tori said.
     "A little under five years. Why?"
     "This isn't our usual method of introduction, Mrs. Phillips," Ballack replied reassuringly, dropping his voice so the boy wouldn't be unsettled, "but we are in the middle of a murder investigation, and our sources indicate that a suspicious death took place on this property seven years ago. This house has a fresher look than the others on the block. Were you the first owners of this new structure?"
     Shari Phillips looked at both of them in turn before smoothing her son's hair and setting him on his feet. "Greg, honey, run back inside a play for a bit. Mommy will take you to the library in a few minutes." Little Greg blinked twice, looked his mother full in the face, and then dutifully tottered back into the house.
     She turned back to Ballack. "We are the original owners, of this new house, at least. We were informed, as a matter of full disclosure, what had happened to the previous structure." She took two steps to the side and wrapped a slender arm around the support pillar. "Are you asking about what happened to the last owners?"
     "That's a potentially connected issue to our present investigation," Ballack replied. "How did you come to move here?"
     "My husband Chad works for Boeing, so aside from being in a decent neighborhood, this place offered easy access to work. You can't beat being about five minutes away, gas prices being what they are. This was a decent place to start a family and Greg came along soon after."
     "How old is he?" asked Tori, pointing inside.
     "About three and a half," Shari responded. "He's our first and not our last. We found out last week we're expecting again. Mid-June next year."
     "Congratulations," said Ballack. "But in reference to earlier, how much do you know about the former owners?"
     "Just that it was a house fire. Tragic, but I know nothing beyond that."
     "Any neighbors who remember that far back?"
     She thought hard for a moment. "Actually, you could ask the Yeasts. Donna Yeast lives across the street two doors down that way." She pointed out the house to them. "Her husband is at work, at the airport. But Donna's car is home. If anyone might know something, it's her."
     "Thank you very much," said Ballack, "and sorry to hold you up from taking your son out. If you remember or hear of anything else, please give us a call."
     Tori handed Shari her card and they turned to traverse the street. "Looks like rain," she said to her partner.
     Ballack nodded and sped onward to the Yeast residence, where Tori drove the van into the driveway there and then procured the portable ramp from the Sprinter. Ballack informed Donna Yeast of their need to ask her questions about the Traffords, and--rather than exhibiting any reticence--she turned out to be a gracious host. Although their food sat heavily in their systems, Ballack and Tori accepted her offer of hot chocolate. She even directed them to her back porch, where the ramp could be positioned for a gentler incline. Tori sat in one of the rattan chairs while Donna took the love seat. Ballack took several sips of his hot chocolate while Tori asked the perfunctory questions about the Yeasts' time in St. Louis, how the neighborhood had changed, and Donna's experience teaching at Ritenour High School. She managed to substitute in area schools upwards of five times a month but was glad to have this day off. "Book club," she said, eyes twinkling. "Monday is my holy day."
     "Which book are you reading now?" asked Ballack, who was thoroughly relishing his drink.
     "Well, we went through a Southern Gothic phase within the past year, and so we did a rotation of Cormac McCarthy's The Orchard Keeper, Mitch Cullen's Tideland, and then Purple Jesus by Ron Cooper. Then we decided to go for a mystery and did The King of Lies."
     "John Hart," nodded Ballack.
     Donna Yeast gave a beaming smile. "You know of him?"
     "One of my father's favorites. I've read that one and then devoured Down River."
     "Yes, we enjoyed The King of Lies and probably would have gone on to his next one, but a couple of ladies were dying to get back into some Pat Conroy, so they persuaded us to try South of Broad."
     Ballack gulped down the last of his hot chocolate. "A great read. 'A story changes every time you say it out loud. When you put it on paper, it can never change. But the more times you tell it, the more changes will occur. A story is a living thing; it moves and shifts.' Conroy is uncanny in his accuracy."
     Donna Yeast kept her sparkling green eyes on Ballack, who looked sideways at Tori and figured the literary appreciation needed to cease. "Mrs. Yeast," he began, slowing the cadence of his voice. "In reference to the Traffords, how long did their time here overlap with your own?"
     "Oh, for about twenty-two years, Detective. They were here before us and we moved in, let's see--in 1983. Of course, they had that poor young man. Dave. What an absolute sweetheart. He would drop anything to help you. I have so many memories of him raking leaves and gathering pine cones. You see that wreath there? Over the mantle? One of his creations."
     Ballack looked at the wreath, which in the array of the Yeasts' early Christmas decorating was one item among many. Even the Christmas tree, he noted, was set up though not trimmed. The wreath had been beautifully put together, with pine needles lacquered and the cones dipped in gold paint. A continuous red ribbon swathed the circumference of the wreath at three-inch intervals, and a simple circular clay ornament hung from the apex of the circle. A Scripture reference was carved in the top portion of the solid loop.
     Tori stood to get a better look at Dave Trafford's creation. "Malachi 4:2?"
     "That poor boy would quote it so often," said Donna, "as if it was his only hope. The sun of righteousness will rise..."
     "With healing in its wings," Ballack finished the quote, the memory of one of his father's Advent sermons holding firm.
     "When did he make this?" asked Tori.
     Donna thought for a few seconds. "Oh, let's see. He was in college at the time. He was always in and out of UMSL. Just couldn't commit to his studies but I couldn't blame him. Such an anxious creature. This, I believe, he made for me in 1986, so let me see. He was twenty-six when he died, so that made him twenty at the time he gave me the wreath."
     "Had Dave always exhibited anxiety and other psychological issues?" Ballack asked. "Was bipolar disorder one of them?
     "He was diagnosed with that back in the day," nodded Donna. "So far back that's when most people commonly called it manic-depressive disorder. Maybe if he lived today, they could do so much more for him."
     "He was in the care of a Dr. Dean Hibbler. Does that name ring a bell?"
     "Oh well. We were probably the closest friends the Traffords had on the block. Yes, we remember the Hibbler fiasco."
     "What happened that made it a fiasco?" asked Tori, her notepad out and her pen ready to move in rapid-fire fashion.
     "Dr. Hibbler had seen Dave for about three years, but every time Dave would be making progress, something would come up from the doctor's end of things. A long vacation, one of his many hunting trips, or something. Dave was the type who not only benefited from a regular schedule, but who also needed constant attention. When Dr. Hibbler would take time off and cancel appointments, Dave read that as rejection. He'd go into a tailspin."
     "Do you recall the events surrounding Dave's death?" Ballack inquired.
     "Poor Marta. She broke down from that day onward. And Paul was a shell of his former self," Donna began. "It was one of Hibbler's hunting trips. That, I think, came out in the records when they went to court. All Dave needed was a refill on his prescription medication, from what Marta told me. Dr. Hibbler had already left and the receptionist stonewalled Dave's request. Not that she could order a prescription; I understand she had to follow proper protocol. But Dave was desperate. And then they confirmed through phone records that the receptionist had called the doctor. Hibbler even confessed in court that she had specifically mentioned Dave to him. And then under oath, the receptionist...I forget her name...anyhow, she said Hibbler refused to help and wished Dave would just go away. Those exact words! Go away! Dear Lord, I still see Marta crumbling under the shock of it all."
     "But he didn't commit suicide," Ballack reminded her.
     "No, but his manner of death was a distinction without a difference. The policeman who found him said that people would race their cars alongside Tower Grove Park and he likely wandered out there, wrong place, wrong time. Paul and Marta couldn't find him one night--twenty years ago, in fact--as he had taken their car. He had let no one know where he was."
     "His entire family had no idea where he was?" Tori pressed.
     "Neither Paul nor Marta," Donna replied, "and he did have a sister, an older sister. Jennifer. But when we arrived here she was in college at Mizzou. She was in pre-med or health sciences or something, but I don't remember it working out. She was the black sheep of the family, I'd say. She married a couple years after Dave's death, but I sure can't remember her husband that well. Last name was Dunnigan. Not that Jennifer was around much. Rather surly at times. Not as pleasant as Dave was." And here she paused to dab her eyes.
     "Let's go with this," Ballack said, wanting to get to the main reason they were there. "Paul and Marta's death. Were you here that night?"
     Donna held her silence for several moments, wiping her eyes with a fresh Kleenex. "Yes. Yes."
     Ballack waited. With no further exposition forthcoming, he asked, "What do you remember, Mrs. Yeast? It will help us if you can be as specific as possible."
     "God loves his double-edged swords, doesn't He?" asked Donna. "Memories of pleasure mixed with unspeakable pain. It was seven years back. I'm sure you've checked out the official report from the police. You know what you're doing. But yes, there's nothing like an eyewitness account from over the years. It was late that night. About eleven o'clock. I was having difficulty sleeping and so I went into the kitchen. Some people like a cup of something warm, or comfort food. My late-night sleep aid was popcorn. I wasn't worried about waking Craig. He can sleep through a nuclear attack. I had the popcorn in the microwave and was just set to take it out when I saw something flickering in the shadows of the house. I was worried it might be an intruder, so I grabbed my rolling pin, worried that if I called for Craig I might get attacked. Stupid, I know, but I didn't think too well. But no one was in the house. The flickers came from across the street at the Trafford's house. Flames belching out of it like an industrial factory explosion. I dropped the rolling pin on my foot so bad that I could only hobble into the bedroom to wake Craig. We both got outside--I remember it was a pretty warm night for November, and extremely dry--and there were people milling around, shocked, shedding tears, every worry and emotion possible. The Kinders--they lived three doors down from us at the time but both have died since--had already called the fire department, but one look at that house told everyone it would do no good other than containing the flames and keep the surrounding houses safe."
     "When did you notice the Traffords weren't outside?" asked Tori.
     "The Kinders told us, and just as they informed us, there was a minor explosion from the house and the roof caved in. The fire engine showed up a minute later but, like I said, they could do little of consequence."
     "The report we heard was Paul and Marta Trafford had been bound to their beds. So suicide is moot, but do you have any idea who might want to do them harm?"
     "No one," said Donna, tears streaming noiselessly down her face even as her voice remained strangely firm. "There was no one who could have wanted them dead!"
     "Somebody did," Ballack cautioned. "Might it have been someone out for their money?"
     "You mean the settlement from Dave's death? The negligence lawsuit?"
     "Actually," Ballack said, his finger upraised for emphasis as he leafed through the documents provided by Dan Sumner. "It was a medical malpractice suit. Three million dollars was the awarded amount, correct."
     "I believe that's what Marta said, yes, although she didn't speak of that figure again."
     "They put the total amount into a trust, correct?"
     "I don't know the exact details, Detective. They didn't share what they were doing with the money, and I didn't ask."
     "As a longtime friend, they hadn't made you or your husband a beneficiary of any trust in the event of their death?"
     Donna Yeast was visibly shocked. "No, I am telling you they never told me what they did with the money! We were cut into any deal because we didn't know what they did. It sure didn't affect them, I'll tell you that for nothing! They fixed up their house a bit. New patio on the back. But they didn't flash the money around. That's all I knew then or know now!"
     Tori decided to take a card off their deck. "The reason we are pressing this matter, Mrs. Yeast, is because a month before their deaths, the Traffords met with Dr. Hibbler in an attempt to reconcile with him."
     "What?"
     "And as a show of good faith and a demonstration they held no ill will toward him, they gave the three million back to him."
     Donna Yeast looked agape at Ballack for confirmation. "Completely true," he said. "They wanted him to know they didn't hold him accountable for Dave's death."
     "They did what? They said what?"
     "Mrs. Yeast, we just came from a meeting with Dr. Hibbler's attorney. I have the deposition here among these documents."
     "But why is that even necessary to your investigation? I mean, you are pursuing the Traffords' deaths, right? It's their cold case you're dealing with!"
     "To be sure, Mrs. Yeast," replied Ballack, once again puncturing the air with his index finger, "we are pursuing a murder inquiry. But the reason we are here is that two days ago at St. Matthew's Grove Hospice in Webster Groves, Dr. Hibbler was murdered in his office." Ballack waited, unwilling to inform Donna of Father Giles' death, as well. "This puts the death of the Traffords in a very interesting light. Not a clear light, mind you, but hopefully you can see why we are asking questions."
     "I do," said Donna after a pregnant pause. "But I've just told you everything Craig and I know about it. Now you've filled my heart with new questions and worries about something still unsolved."
     "That's an open matter that we intend to close, Mrs. Yeast. Thank you for your time and for the hot chocolate. Please let us know of anything that might come to mind if you have a sudden moment of remembrance. Here's my card."
     Donna took Ballack's card, then Tori's as she handed one to her. "I will if I can, Detectives," she muttered, staring at the cards in a dreamlike trance. "But I will say this much: It has been too painful to dredge up these memories, and if I can avoid having any more, I will."
     "I understand, ma'am," Ballack replied, putting his wheelchair in gear for the trip back to the Sprinter. "But given everything we've brought out here, there may be more than we realize, that the deaths of the Traffords and Dr. Hibbler are profoundly connected in a significant way."
     

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 33)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 33

     Located at the corner of Natural Bridge Road and Goodfellow Boulevard, Connelly's Goody Goody Diner boasts a pantheon of breakfast and lunch platters that rank among the most renowned in the St. Louis area. Situated in the northwest corner of the city limits, the establishment is one of the few St. Louis businesses permitted to have a flashing sign. The interior is comfortably full most of the time, with patrons packed out the door during weekend breakfast hours. Pictures of local folks, events, and memorabilia deck the papered walls and overlook both the counter area and the many tables throughout. 

     Tori tapped Ballack on the shoulder and pointed to a table that had just opened up by the windows. In no time, they had moved through the gregarious crowd that was a solid blend of socio-economic and multi-racial backgrounds.  They settled in and opened the menus on the red tablecloth, eventually settling on the same order for each: the meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and lima beans. Tori texted a message to Paula while they waited and sipped their ice waters. She looked absently out the window before losing patience and calling her ex-husband, leaving a message to make sure Paula made her doctor's appointment that afternoon.

     "Any developments?" asked Ballack.

     "Still a good deal of pain," replied Tori. "I'm worried we'll be closing in on Bowie and then I'll get a call that her water broke."

     "Well, you have to give her credit for persevering thus far. Even if she has kept you on pins and needles."

     "What's got me edgy is the sex of the baby. I can't believe Paula refuses to find out."

     Ballack said nothing but whipped out his own phone and dialed John Rearden's number. The first call went to voice mail and Ballack, never patient himself in these situations, signed off and then immediately dialed again. Rearden answered after two rings.

     "You believe in playing hard to get?" Ballack asked.

     "I was walking my dog," Rearden snarled, "which happens to be a retriever, and my phone was lodged in my jacket pocket. Do the math, copper."

     "How was Ben's game yesterday?"

     "Won the first, lost the second with four minutes to go. But Ben was sterling as always. Not that I'm biased."

     "Just checking in to see if you've gone ahead on Delmar."

     "Was getting to it this afternoon. Can I email you the results?"

     "Actually, if you can target three specific cases involving Hibbler, that'd be even more of a coup." He mentioned the lawsuits that Sumner had detailed for them nearly an hour before. "What do you say, John?"

     "That's two Glenfiddiches."

     "There goes Tori's paycheck," Ballack groaned.

     "My what?" asked Tori.

     "Nothing. Is that something you can handle?"

     "General confirmation or is there something specific you want?"

     Ballack thought, recalling his words to Sumner. "Any angle from any case that would mean revenge against Hibbler." He paused, weighing the three million dollar payout to the Trafford family. "But especially the Dave Trafford fiasco. I'll send you the names of the suits to your phone."

     "Stay by your laptop, then."

     "Seriously, John. Where am I going to go?" Ballack hung up.

     "So, this is on the way to the Traffords' old place?" asked Tori.

     "If the Internet doesn't lie," replied Ballack. He had done a search through various news headlines from 2005 and found the heart-wrenching story of Paul and Marta Trafford. "Obviously, we're taking our chances that anyone remains in that neighborhood, but we've eked out against longer odds before. And according to Google Maps, there's a house built on top of the ashes of the former abode."

     Their food arrived and both detectives, who had skipped breakfast, attacked their victuals with a vengeance.

     "Evidently," Ballack said after chewing up a forkful of lima beans, "the entire Trafford family brought the lawsuit. And Dave wasn't an only child. Their daughter Jennifer is named, as well."

     "Anything else?"

     "Snakes and arrows!" Ballack snapped. "Missy texted me when we were in Sumner's office. Told me to ring her back and it completely slipped what's left of my mind!"

     "You deserve that after you left me hanging with Suzanne Lamotta," Tori muttered as she threw her straw wrapped at Ballack's head. He dodged it and put the phone to his ear.

     "Missy, sorry I didn't get you called until now. You need an update?"

     "Go ahead, and then I'll give you one," Crabolli said with a streak of excitement bolting through her verbiage.

     Ballack gave a brief summary of their day's events, then asked Crabolli for her news. Half a minute later, Ballack's face beamed with a grin that shone like the sun. "Good news," he gushed to Tori after he hung up. "Zane's awake and improving, and Missy is getting discharged this afternoon."

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 32)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 32

     The elevator creaked after a slight delay, but Ballack and Tori had no other problems ascending to the fifth floor and the offices of Palmer, Sumner, and Wilson in one of the many fashionable loft buildings of the Central West End of St. Louis. The full-glass elevator gave the rising duo a marvelous view of Forest Park, Barnes-Jewish Hospital, St. Louis Children's Hospital, and the Chase Plaza. Ballack quietly marveled that he was looking over expansive ground containing rich history. Here, Tennessee Williams and T.S. Eliot had maintained residences. Just west of where they were, the 1904 Summer Olympics had brought the world to the gateway of the West at Washington University's Francis Field.

     The muted chime announced they had arrived at the designated floor. A quick journey down the hallway brought them to a spacious waiting area tastefully decorated with IKEA-style furniture. The receptionist, bearing a weary look and bronzed skin, confirmed that Daniel Sumner was in his office. She pressed the intercom and informed him that he was needed up at the front. Ballack judged her accent to be South American, perhaps Argentine.

     The man who approached them holding out his hand struck Ballack as one of the more unlikely suspects for murder. He stood a mere five feet, eight inches tall, with closely cropped blond hair, and was decked in a light blue shirt, yellow tie, and navy slacks. Tori took a half-step back and Ballack wondered if it was because Sumner had overdone it on the Aramis.

     "Can I help you?" Sumner's voice was high-pitched. His eyes darted from Ballack to Tori and back again, no doubt pondering the wheelchair's presence.

     "Mr. Sumner, I am Detective Cameron Ballack and this is my partner, Tori Vaughan. We are here on a matter of extreme urgency, representing the Special Investigative Division of Metro St. Louis. We'd like a few minutes of your time, if you can spare them."

     Sumner's demeanor turned gloomy, and a storm of worry brewed behind his watery blue eyes. "Is this about Dean Hibbler?"

     "You're quick on the update," Tori remarked.

     The attorney nodded and turned to his receptionist. "Hold my calls, Silvia." Fixing both detectives with a skittish look, he said, "Follow me. It's the corner office in the rear."
     From the look of the eclectic waiting area, Ballack was expecting Sumner's office to follow suit. He was surprised to discover a traditional ambiance, with the faceless law books situated on dazzlingly white built-in bookshelves with ornate carvings. an oak coat rack stood in one corner and a printer sat in another, churning out documents at a feverish rate. Sumner beckoned them toward the chair by his desk and moved another one to give Ballack plenty of room to glide in.
     "I still have difficulty getting my head around this," the attorney said. "Dean dead. Don't get me wrong. We all face our final breath at some point. But these sorts of things shouldn't happen in the way they happen. I assume you are part of the detail investigating his murder?"
     "That's the word you heard? Murder?" asked Tori, unsure how much to trust him.
     "All over the news last night, Miss Vaughan. Couldn't miss it. And I'll ask again: Are you both part of the detail investigating Dean's murder?"
     "You don't need to know the entire backstory," said Ballack, with an edge to his voice, "but for now--due to circumstances that have befallen others--we are the detail."
     "What?" Sumner snapped, upset. "Just the two of you?"
     "And to be honest," added Tori, "Dr. Hibbler's death is not the only one, so we're burning the candle at both ends."
     Sumner now seemed genuinely confused. "Who?"
     "Mr. Sumner, we're the ones asking the questions, not you," Ballack replied, reining in his temper and making sure his Dragon software was running unhindered. "But we'll not leave you in the dark forever. Let's focus on Dr. Hibbler, since he is the primary reason we are here today. How long did you know him?"
     Sumner leaned back in his chair, a faraway, appreciative look covering his face and his lips forming a smile forged by sadness and the march of memory. "I've actually known him for twenty-five years. All the way back to my high school days."
     "That long?"
     "I was not the model student in school, to begin with, and our family situation was hardly ideal," Sumner began. "My folks split up during my freshman year--I went to Vianney--and I reacted in the typical fashion. My math teacher during my junior year suggested I see a psychiatrist and I was predictably resistant. I cheated on an exam that winter and the administration were set to kick me off campus, if not out of the Milky Way. But Mr. Franco, my math teacher, went to bat for me. Part of the agreement for me to stay on at Vianney was I had to agree to weekly sessions with Dr. Hibbler."
     "You were determined to stay on there?" Tori inquired suspiciously.
     "Part of it was for selfish reasons. I played baseball--in fact, I went on to play college ball at Eastern Illinois. I didn't want to give that up. But another part was that I really liked and appreciated the school. Despite the fact I was a pretty snarky kid and was often in trouble, the truth is Vianney was a piece of concrete at the bottom of my existence. The school was my constant, so I figured a shrink visit couldn't hurt."
     "I would guess," said Ballack, "that if you maintained a cordial relationship after a quarter-century then the sessions must've been a success."
     "He was a good psychiatrist. I know some have taken issue with him and felt he didn't care about their cases, but that was never the way it was with me. In fact, Dean is the reason I'm in this office now. Soon after I got through law school--I went to DePaul in Chicago--Doug Palmer recruited me here based on Dean's recommendation. Doug is a friend of Dean's and went with him on a number of hunting trips. Dean let him know about my impending school completion and availability, and this has been the only place I've worked as an attorney."
     Ballack's phone pulsed, and a quick glance at the screen revealed Crabolli's number and a text message: CALL ME WHEN U CAN!
     "Did you represent Dr. Hibbler during his time at the Delmar Psychiatric Clinic?" asked Tori.
     "He selected me as his legal representation after some issues with the previous guy," Sumner answered, his eyes taking on a greater wariness. "It was about ten years ago and he was hit with a slew of lawsuits. To be truthful, whatever accuracy his accusers might have felt was in their cases, their timing was a little too clustered to be a coincidence."
     "You're saying," Ballack spoke slowly, "that there were previous patients who ponied up at the same time and thought they'd get a quick and generous settlement from the good doctor."
     "I'm saying that so-called victims know ahead of time how the game is played, and then they grab at the weak spots and squeeze."
     "Did you settle with any of them?"
     "Went the full limit with all, and in truth, only three families took him to court for negligence and malpractice over the years. The rest dropped their charges. Still, the process ruined him and of course, Delmar didn't stand by him. The director there ordered him to leave the practice, and we counter-sued Delmar."
     "What was the result," asked Tori, "of the suits involving the three families, I mean."
     "The monetary payout wasn't terrible for the two of the three I actually worked on," Sumner said, going to a cabinet with hanging files and searching for the one in question. "Ah, here we are. The 2002 cases. Winchell v. Hibbler and Delmar Psychiatric Clinic, followed by McGregor v. Hibbler and Delmar Psychiatric Clinic. Each lasted over a week, the plaintiffs both seeking millions. We fought them tooth and nail, and neither got more than two hundred fifty thousand, but the humiliation of the public disgrace was too much for Delmar. Dean, too. Part of the judgment was the stripping of his psychiatric credentials, even though he could still practice medicine."
     "Can a judge declare that as part of the sentencing?" Ballack wondered aloud. "I'd think he or she could recommend it or order regulations to revoke the license, but sentencing it outright seemed to go beyond his bounds."
     "Judge Michael Everhart sure believed he had the powers of God, and only an outcry of support from the public kept the fraternity of jurisprudence from picking him apart like a meal for crows. In the end, he changed his wording to just that, ordering the financial settlement and strongly recommending state medical regulators to 'downgrade' Dean, as the Post-Dispatch so eloquently put it."
     Ballack privately wondered if that journalistic soliloquy had come from the keyboard of one John Rearden. He made a note to ask him later.
     "And he was done after that?" asked Tori. "And that's how he ended up as medical director at St. Matthew's Grove?"
     "That's his wandering path, yes," replied Sumner, peering into the file as if trying to divine prophetic guidance from its contents. "As Dean has passed and you are investigating his murder, would you want the information for yourself?"
     Ballack shrugged slightly, expecting Tori to respond. It had been she who, along with Crabolli, had taken photos of Hibbler's notations at the lakehouse.
     "That would be fine," she replied.
     "You said there was another lawsuit, as well," said Ballack, "but it must have occurred before you became Dr. Hibbler's attorney."
     "Absolutely. That was a nasty piece of work. One of his bipolar patients died--in fact, it was twenty years ago this month. Dave Trafford. The story was he tried to make appointments, there was excessive neediness, cloying behavior. In short, all of Bill Murray's effort in What About Bob on steroids with zero humor. Dean couldn't take it. Anyhow, Dean headed out to do some hunting one long weekend and Trafford felt he was left high and dry. Lack of meds or something, but the kook wandered into traffic somewhere down by Kingshighway. Eventually, a car mowed him down late at night and he never had a chance. The Trafford family sued and won a medical malpractice suit the next year. His lawyer did such a slipshod job that the prosecution had no problem establishing Dean owed Dave Trafford a duty of care. Dean's attorney practically conceded that during cross-examination! Deviating from the sufficient standard of care was a harder target to hit. Dean had a reputation--a reputation, mind you--for too much leisure and not enough work, but I doubt anything short of bringing their son back from the dead would have satisfied the Traffords."
     "How old was Dave Trafford?" asked Ballack.
     "I can't be exact, but I think mid- to late-twenties."
     "What was the sentence?"
     "License probation ordered, plus three million dollars to the family. The parents put it in a trust, and I don't know the details of what and where. Seven years ago, Trafford's parents died in a house fire. Now that was a mystery."
     "How so?"
     "No proof of arson, but here's the thing--the police thought it might be just that. They'd been tied down in their beds and burned as the flames engulfed the house."
     "That's sick," Tori protested.
     "Agreed," acknowledged Sumner, "and here's the truly odd thing. One month before that, the Traffords called Dean. It was soon after he had started at St. Matthew's Grove. They wanted to make amends and wanted him to know they didn't blame him for their son's death. And as a token of this moment of clarity, they wanted to give the trust back to him."
     "What?" Ballack and Tori exclaimed simultaneously.
     "As my hand is raised to the Almighty, it's the honest truth. They came in here and I drew up the paperwork myself. I've done enough work on trusts and living wills to maneuver through the intricacies without much pain. So, when Dean was murdered, he was a rich man. Maybe whoever did this to him wanted money."
     "No evidence of theft, either at his house or in his office," said Tori. "Our colleagues checked."
    "More likely revenge," Ballack postulated.
    Sumner thought it over but shook his head. "That's above my pay grade and so I'll gladly let the two of you ferret out any evidence on that count. Would you be wanting a copy of this Trafford brief?"
     "That would be helpful," Ballack said graciously, "and a copy of the paperwork when they dissolved the trust and gave Hibbler back the money."
     "I'll be right back," said Sumner, bolting out the door. "Silvia?" he called. "I need you to run something for me."
     Tori tapped Ballack on the knee. "Now what?" she asked. "This changes things. We don't need to hit the clinic if what he says is true."
     Ballack nodded. "Let's grab a bite and figure out the next move. We can look over these Trafford details and see if anything leaps off the page."

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 31)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 31

     Karen Giles had dressed selectively for her sorrowful expedition. Both Holbrook and Grimshaw had wisely steered her from the chapel. Ballack suggested meeting with her in the library, but Karen adamantly expressed her desire to speak in her husband's office. Ballack thought this was imprudent but refused to dissuade her. He offered her to choose her seat and she headed straight for her husband's easy chair that sat in front of an impressive array of shelved books. Ballack noted titles by Rowan Williams and Brennan Manning, among others. He pulled up within three feet of Karen. Despite her grief, she had taken time in her arrival. She had shampooed and brushed her willowy copper hair, exhibiting its softness and shine. Her red long-sleeved blouse complemented her black pinstripe slacks and glossy pumps. Her face had a light covering of makeup, and there was barely a trace of tears smudging her mascara. Though he had expected a decidedly mournful appearance from this widow, Ballack decided upon further reflection that a sacrificial offering of unkempt display would only dishonor the dead, and this example of sturdy bereavement in front of him would do just as well.

     After several quiet moments, Karen Giles turned to him and said, "Detective Ballack, how long will the forensics team be in the chapel?"

     He hoped to steer her mentally from that locale. "it is difficult to say. It will depend on what evidence they find, and how much." He leaned back in his wheelchair. "In the meantime, Mrs. Giles, I still need to ask you some questions. Are you certain you'd be most comfortable here?"

     "Yes," she said quietly, "although I would like to see my husband."

     "I understand, ma'am," Ballack replied hastily, "but for now the chapel is a crime scene as your husband was murdered. I know you desire to see him, but I have viewed his body. And I would definitively tell you it would be best that you remember him as he was and not as he is now."

     "I take it that his death was especially...brutal?"

     There was no easy way of putting it. "That's a fair questions, and sadly, the answer is yes."

     Karen Giles shifted in her chair and leaned in Ballack's direction. "How did Rory die, Detective? Nick Fisher did not tell me."

     Which doesn't mean he didn't know, thought Ballack. "Reverend Fisher does not know the specific manner of death. All that we have told him is that Father Giles was murdered. Mrs. barber discovered your husband in the chapel this morning." He spared her the details about the priest's positioning on the altar.

     She leaned forward more and pressed her hand on his. "I understand your discretion, Detective Ballack, but as I want this evildoer brought to justice as you do, I can assure you I will not share the specifics with anyone."

     Ballack looked at her with a firm but kind stare, judging her trustworthiness. "Your husband was killed by multiple blows to the head and to the face. He suffered significant injuries. As understandable as your desire is to see him, would you please allow our medical examiner to take his body first?"

     "For an autopsy?"

     "That would be correct."

     Mrs. Giles shivered, more from discomfort than cold. "I could hardly bear the thought of someone doing that to my Rory, putting him on a table and dissecting him."

     Ballack privately thought the greater pain to bear was the loneliness she would feel as the reality of her husband's death enveloped her. "Still," he said, "despite your reservations, an autopsy could potentially give us a lead in finding his murderer."

     That seemed to loosen her resolve. "That does strike me as somewhat reasonable. I am sure my objections--great as they are--happen to be more emotional than practical."

     "There is no shame in that, Mrs. Giles," Ballack replied as a hand rapped on the door. Tori entered without announcing herself, sweeping around to a seat near the wall and seating herself roughly.

     "Everything fine in Windcastle?" Ballack whispered, his facial expression unchanged.

     "Shut up, jerk," she mouthed back.

     He turned his attention back to Karen Giles. "I don't mean to dredge up any uncomfortable details, but did your husband seem to be under any more stress than usual lately?"

     "You mean," the widow replied, "something like the hospice closing down."

     "Yes, we know about that."

     "Rory was worried, of course, but then we've been through tough times before. I wasn't as concerned about it as he was. He felt underappreciated here. Rory is--I guess I should get used to saying 'was'--an excellent priest. He thought the best of others even when it was hard to do so. He was conscientious and kind. His personality was such an anomaly compared to the rest of this place."

     "Did he ever believe he was in danger?"

     "Vocational danger, yes. That's why he was worried about the probable closing or absorption. What's someone going to do with a priest when his retirement is on the short horizon? But physical danger, I can't imagine. He didn't have close friendships with the staff, except for the Hagans. Oh, Bob and Patricia. Such tenderhearted folks. But the others, not as deep. Still, you can't be thinking it was someone here?"

     "Not to put more stress on what is an extremely sad time for you, Mrs. Giles," said Tori kindly, "but we asked you for a reason."

     "But a place like this!" exclaimed Karen. "I can't imagine it could breed murder and terror like this! Why can't you say it was an outside attack?"

     "We're not ruling that completely out, Mrs. Giles," Ballack calmly replied, "but whoever did this either works here full-time or has regular access to the building as a part-time worker, volunteer, leadership participant, or a visitor. And given these murders occurred in an office and the chapel, it is someone who found a way to enter those places and was somewhat familiar to Dr. Hibbler and your husband."

     She didn't respond, her head drooping slightly. Ballack decided they had spoken for long enough. "You don't need to answer any more questions, Mrs. Giles. I have added enough to your mind and heart today. I can give you my card and Tori here will do the same. If there is anything you recall later, you can always give us a ring."

     "Thank you," she responded as graciously as her grief would allow. "I am sure everyone here is waiting to give me the perfunctory condolences, but there are some I will be grateful to see. The Hagans, Isabel, and Beverly have always been especially nice to me. I am sure their words will at least give me some comfort. Thank you both, Detectives. I'll see myself out."

     After she left the office, Ballack turned to Tori, whose withering frown melted into an exasperated grin.

     "So, she was irate?" he asked.

     "Suzanne Lamotta?" Tori answered.

     "No, Taylor Swift," Ballack crackled with sarcasm. "Of course, the ex-wife."

     "How would you feel if your house got shot up gangland-style?"

     "A seven-shot ripping hardly deserves that label. It's where the shots landed that counts. Did you explain to her that all the damage was confined to the deck light, sliding doors, and the stoneware jug?"

     "It didn't keep her from demanding restitution. she'd whacked out enough to sue us."

     "That bridge is down the road," Ballack waved off his partner's statement. Come on. We have other trails to chase."

     "Like what?"

     "Do you still have Hibbler's personnel file and other documents?"

     "In the van."

     "Does he have a list of important contacts in there?"

     "Maybe. We can check his desk, too. It's no longer a restricted scene. What are you looking for?"

     "His lawyer."

     "Excuse me?"

     "It might help to speak to whomever might have represented his case while at Delmar."

     "Por que?"

     "Just a hunch I got in the cafeteria when Isabel Andrews said a stronger security system was not required by law. Law, lawyer. It just popped in my head."

     "I hope it's in the desk or the file, because I sure don't feel like calling his ex again."

     As it turned out, Hibbler had kept a vinyl case of business cards in the upper left-hand drawer of his desk. Tori whisked through it and found only one attorney. The address of Daniel Sumner was a Central West End location. Ballack knew there were even odds Sumner could be either in court or his office.

     "This had better turn up gold, partner," Tori griped as they eased into traffic on Lockwood. "At least it's on the way to the Delmar clinic."

     "Just a hunch, Tor. Just a hunch."

     "Well, when you get your hunches, the biggest loser of those matches turns out to be Untied Health Care."

    Ballack grinned and looked back at St. Matthew's Grove, surprised to see the blinds opened in a patient room and what looked like Helen Smith's face in the window gazing after them.

Cry From The Grave (Chapter 30)

Cry From The Grave

Chapter 30

     Ballack reasoned that their team at half strength was better than no team at all. After Tori picked him up, they stopped by Suzanne Lamotta's house and--seeing no one was homes--placed the keys in a small labeled security envelope in the mailbox. Forty minutes later, Tori parked the Sprinter in the same spot as they had Saturday morning, and within a minute, they had breached the front door of St. Matthew's Grove. Krieger himself was in the narthex scribbling notes as Isabel Andrews was gesturing wildly to him. Although she seemed relatively calm once Ballack drew astride her, the detective saw the red splotches around her eyes and smelled a prior crying attack.
     "Anyone else in the chapel?" asked Ballack, and Krieger nodded.
     "Holbrook arrived fifteen minutes ago and is prepping," he said. "Sheilah should arrive in ten. Heard from Missy?"
     "Tori texted her before we left to come here. How long will you be around?"
     "Long enough until you get started. Just taking a few notes. I'll be gone before you're ready to see the staff."
     Tori was almost to the chapel doors when she noticed something on the floor near the lip. Ballack sidled up next to her and followed her gaze.
     "Bloody print," she said, pulling out her camera, "from the front part of a shoe."
     "Won't be able to see what size," Ballack demurred, "but it's something." They pushed open the left door and moved into the chapel.
     The ghastly tableau before them was more appropriate for a Druid hall than a Christian church. Father Giles' battered body was neatly placed on the altar, with a tray of Eucharistic wafers on the floor nearest his head and a chalice of wine four feet to the right at his feet. His hands remained wrapped around the altarpiece; upon closer investigation, Ballack saw it was a stainless steel cross. It had not been on the altar either time they had held interviews in the chapel.
     Holbrook approached them wearing his examiner's outfit, a crisp white pullover uni-suit that looked practically starched. Soft blue slippers graced his feet.
     "Just you two," he said.
     Tori frowned. "I guess you heard about Missy and Zane."
     Holbrook slowly gestured his assent. "Krieger let me know. Before you arrived, I was able to get a temperature." He raised his eyebrows toward Ballack, who disliked seeing the violation of the lifeless victim's privacy. "And you'd better find out what night life is like around here."
     "Why's that?" asked Ballack.
     "According to the temperature, death was likely just after nine-thirty last night."
     Ballack's eyes widened. Tori nearly dropped her camera. "What?" she said.
     "The thermometer doesn't lie. Neither does the body," replied Holbrook.
     "Okay, okay," said Ballack. "So, we're talking over twelve hours ago. Walk us through it first. I'm guessing the line of blood from the aisle to the altar shows the attack took place in the middle of the chapel. That much we can see."
    "Most likely," Holbrook answered as he walked down the aisle to the exact point. "Hard to tell why or even if it was a surprise. Not many areas in this room to shock with an appearance unless you came straight through the doors. There is, though, a small closet built into this back wall." He pointed to the spot, sort of a hidden nook. But there's a vacuum cleaner and several supplies in it. The attacker could have hidden there, but the problem is he'd have to crouch down and it's not a very good starting position to spring into action."
      "No weapon found?" Ballack asked as Tori continued to snap pictures.
     "None," Holbrook shook his head, "but given the contusions, marks, and the amount of blood, it's safe to say it was solid metal and quite heavy. You can count out the altar cross, of course. Even if it was heavy enough, it's not even dinged up or damaged; in fact, it's in immaculate condition. The marks are about an inch and a half with severe discoloring of the skin. That's why I'm counting on solid metal, perhaps iron, although Sheilah will take any fibers or filings that may be embedded in the wounds. Anything wooden would need more mass and thickness, like when we handled Father Jonathan's death at St. Basil's."
      "Respect," said Ballack, hand on his heart, recalling the harsh beating the priest received via the baseball bat.
     "Lots of blood," said Tori, "but even with the marks on his face, the wounds aren't exactly open ones. I'm guessing the death blow was from behind, given the gunk all over this side of the altar?"
     "First and subsequent strikes appear to be in the back of the skull. The first one would have stunned him, possibly rendered him unconscious but not killed him. After repeated strikes--say, the third or fourth--you'd get the spurting that resulted in everything you see here on the carpet. Bleeding in the cranial cavity and so on. He was probably dead within seconds, but whoever this was kept at it. Either turned or kicked him over and continued beating him in the face."
     Ballack cringed, the bile stinging in his throat. The calculating mind he normally brought to each case was giving way to any anger he found difficult to control. He had experienced little interaction with Father Giles but found him to be a gentle and reasonable man, scarcely imagining he could have enemies. So why this, this unchecked rage, this avalanche of ire, this deluge of fury which swept this priest away in its flood waters? Ballack stared at Giles' corpse, the wrath and frustration escalating. He could not fathom what had happened, but by heaven and earth--he covenanted with himself--he would discover the one responsible, and there would be justice.
     "Frenzy in the attack, if you ask me," said Holbrook, calling Ballack's mind back to the present as the doors opened.
     "Detectives," called Stu Krieger. "Sheilah has arrived and wants to conference with Evan for now. I'm heading out now, but the staff has assembled in the cafeteria. Reverend Fisher was alerted and has joined them."
     "Thanks," replied Ballack, then turning to Holbrook, said, "When you're done, email me everything."
     He and Tori began the walk down the hallway toward the cafeteria. "A little reserved on the way over, were we?" he asked her.
     "Paula was having significant pains last night," she replied, packing away her camera. "Felt like contractions."
     "Contractions? But she's not due for three weeks!"
     "Tell that to the baby. Probably not enough square footage in her womb anymore."
     Ballack smiled broadly but wiped the grin from his face as they entered the cafeteria. Nick Fisher was speaking in low tones to Isabel Andrews. Beverly Overton and Anna Barber sat erect in their chairs. The Hagans appeared, leaving the dishes soaking in the massive kitchen sink. There was also a housekeeper Ballack did not recognize, but he wasn't going to waste time on introductions.
     "Reverend Fisher," Ballack announced, "I am sorry our questions must come at this time, but can I have a few moments?" As the small crowd quieted, Ballack addressed them en masse. "I am truly sorry for the events of the past couple days. Dr. Hibbler's death was tragic, and now, as all of you might know, Father Giles was found this morning in the chapel. He was brutally murdered. I had only the briefest contact with him, but I found Father Giles to be a gentle soul and a kind man. I can see from some of your looks here that he was not only a fellow laborer, but a dear friend. You have my deepest sympathy."
     Ballack cleared his throat. "But tragedy does not deter us from assessing the facts. As we have another murder on these grounds, we must ask the hard questions and your answers--as difficult as it might be to formulate them in these moments--will expedite the process of justice."
     He allowed the words to sink in and gestured Tori to pose the next query. "The most important question to ask is this: Were any of you here in the facility last night?"
     Fisher frowned at the last two words. "Last night, detective? What does this have to do with Rory's death? Surely you're not saying he was killed yesterday?"
     "The question stands, Reverend Fisher," said Ballack coolly, noting Fisher's use of the word yesterday.
     "Good heavens! He had just assisted me at church at the five-thirty service last night! Are you telling me--us--that he was killed last night?"
     "We'll give more details once we've spoken to Mrs. Giles," said Tori, "but please answer the question for now: Were any of you here last night between the hours of eight and twelve?"
     No one said a word. Ballack's frustration had passed the simmering stage.
     Tori sensed it and followed up. "Fine. Just for the sake of argument--and we should have asked this yesterday--how many of you have access to the building during off hours with a key or card?"
     Isabel Andrews uncomfortably drew herself up in her chair. "Every member of the staff does. We all have entry cards with magnetic strips and a code square on the back. If you take a look at the door at the end of the northwest hall, there is an alarm pad. That's the off-hours entry door. The slide pad is on the outside. There's a wraparound ramp that leads into the parking lot."
     "Not that it does much good," came a voice from the door. Helen Smith had rolled her wheelchair into the room. "Can someone get me a glass of water?"
     "I'll handle that," said a concerned Bob Hagan, starting to his feet.
     "What did you mean by that, Mrs. Smith?" asked Tori.
     Helen cleared her throat. "Oh, even if someone wanted to sneak in, you can see a lot from the windows on that hallway. I could write a book about it."
     "Excuse me?" Ballack asked, keeping one eye on the rest of the assembled crew.
     "I couldn't help but overhear this conversation as I went by," said the silver-haired septuagenarian. "If you're wondering about the chaplain's death, I never saw it happen. But if you're wondering about who might have done it, why not consider the shadow in the grass last night?"
     "Shadow?" Tori drew near to Helen Smith.
     "Snaking through the lawn running north of here. He was gliding away fast like his tail was on fire!"
     "You're sure it was a male?" inquired Tori.
     Helen shrugged painfully. "I can't think of anyone else moving at that speed. Not like I get out that much to judge for sure." She saw Bob Hagan returning with her water. "Thank you, dear. I think I'll have my drink now."
     Ballack turned to the entire group, facing Nick Fisher and Isabel Andrews in particular. "Is this the extent of your security system?" he asked.
     "What do you mean?" replied the nursing director.
     "Is that the only after-hours entry?"
     "Yes."
     "And is there a computerized system that tracks entries, or is the card system just for entry with no log data?"
     "We don't have that, Detective Ballack," said Nick Fisher, "nor have we ever seen reason to. With the small staff and work area, we've never viewed it as cost-effective."
     "I'm sure the last couple days have changed your perspective," Tori said.
     "It's not required by law," offered Isabel.
     Ballack lifted his head suddenly, as if he'd had a revelation. "Can we get brief statements from each of you? We have several folks with whom we still need to meet. Reverend Fisher, your whereabouts?"
     "Left the church at seven-fifteen last night. Went home. With my wife all evening and in bed by ten."
     "Mrs. Andrews?"
     "Home. With my husband. We were watching a movie on Netflix."
     "Mrs. Barber?"
     "My cousin came in from out of town. She's staying for a few weeks through Thanksgiving. She flew into Lambert and touched down at eight-ten. If needed, I can produce her ticket and my parking receipt."
     "Mrs. Overton?"
     "I also was watching a movie, but went out to see it at the Des Peres cinema." She handed a barely one-square inch card to Tori, who looked at it.
     "Lincoln. The seven-forty show," she said, passing it to Ballack.
     "I was there with a friend if you need further confirmation," Beverly added.
     "Anyone here seen it?" asked Ballack, which elicited a flurry of denials from all present. "My parents saw it opening night. Interesting, my Yankee father and Southern mother watching this film. I'm surprised Fort Sumter didn't break out all over again."
     Beverly Overton nodded. "It's worth the price."
     "Hearing the chimes at daybreak," Ballack said dreamily, with a slight British accent.
     "I beg your pardon?" she replied.
     "Lincoln quoting Falstaff. It was my father's favorite quote from the movie."
     The nurse smiled, the quote apparently registering. "That's right, that's right."
     Ballack tapped the stub twice against his chin, handed it to Tori for safekeeping, then asked the Hagans, "And the two of you?"
     "We were planning the menu two weeks in advance," said Patricia Hagan. "We were doing that at home together."
     Her husband nodded his agreement.
     Ballack copied and pasted his notes into a separate document on his laptop and raised his eyebrows to Tori. "That will be all at present. We have some additional people to meet, but please know that we might return for some follow-up questions."
     The moment they were in the hallway, headed back to the chapel, Tori's phone rang.
     "Detective Vaughan, this is Suzanne Lamotta. Thank you for returning the keys. I just wanted to let you know I got them out of the mailbox."
     "You're welcome, Mrs. Lamotta," replied Tori with a pained look, "but there's something about the house."
     "Yes, the house! How did you like it?"
     "Um, well..."
     Ballack put his wheelchair in high gear, ripping through the hallway into the narthex, leaving Tori on her own.